


Tattooed Memories

by pherryt



Series: Clint Barton Bingo [12]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Clint POV, Clint's past, Crying, Forced Amnesia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Mindwipes, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Passing Time, Secret Relationship, Tattoos, Teacher!Bucky, Vigilante!Clint, deaf!Clint, hurt!Clint, post winter soldier, pre avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 12:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20389408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt
Summary: Sometimes, Clint doesn't know what even is his life anymore.  He ran from the circus to get away from the less than savory things they were doing, but here he was, basically a (less than legal) hero for hire and...getting pointers from the Winter Soldier?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST - MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH - is in canon death and not Winterhawk
> 
> Okay, chapter 1 - squares filled:  
Clint Barton Bingo - Vigilante  
Winterhawk Bingo - Clint meets Winter Soldier Bucky
> 
> lastly, its about 6 chapters long and i just have to finish the second half of chapter 6.

Life after the circus was harder in some ways and easier in others.

Left adrift and alone for the first time in his life, Clint sought purpose, but his skills were limited. Legal means of employment was just a little hard to wrangle when you didn’t have a diploma, much less a birth certificate – though he knew he _must _have had one of those at some point, but it wasn’t like he knew how to get one. And not being able to read much was definitely an issue on top of being partially deaf.

It all combined to make him _literally_ unemployable. Especially when hitting an impossible shot with a bow and arrow was not exactly the resume building material people were looking for.

And without ever meaning to, Clint had found himself falling into the grayer parts of life, taking jobs that were considerably less than legal.

It was ironic, he thought, lining up his shot, that what got him in trouble at Carson’s was exactly what he was doing right now.

_No_, he reminded himself firmly_. I’m making the world a better place. I’m only going after the bad guys, only robbing the immoral._

Under the cover of darkness, in a tree several properties away, Clint aimed carefully, viewing the scene before him. Through the window of the clean, suburban home, a little on the richer side, a man – his target – was looming over his wife. She cowered, trapped against a low counter, her back to Clint and blocking his shot.

Vague memories of his childhood floated through his mind, of his drunk father beating and berating Clint’s mother before turning to take his frustrations out on his kids.

Clint had been hired to take the man out. Not for this reason, though, this was just what had tipped the scales in Clint’s decision. He waited for the man to shift, for the woman to move and make her escape – there was no need for collateral damage and in fact, a bonus for preserving her life, freeing her from this douche bag.

_There_. Fingers and arm steady, Clint let go the string, heard the soft twang by his ear through the hiss of his aids and he watched the arrow fly unerringly through the narrow gap of the open window and hit the man.

He toppled over and the wife screamed – more in shock than grief, Clint was sure – and Clint quickly set to putting his bow away. There was no need or reason to watch the fallout and every reason to get as far away as possible, just in case.

There was no cause in tempting the rotten Barton luck that seemed to follow him everywhere.

He perch was already far enough away from the target that he felt no fear of being caught but his instincts towards caution was too strong. Clint still made his way back to the place he’d holed up in as cautiously as he could.

Twice, he thought he’d seen something from the corner of his eye, a glint of metal, but when he looked (as casually as he could manage, using years of pickpocket experience), he saw nothing.

Five minutes after taking the shot, he left the nicer neighborhood and veered right.

Another ten minutes of walking a circuitous route, Clint had reached the house he was using, it’s for sale sign prominently displayed. He slipped into the backyard, climbed a tree and landed on the roof of the back porch, easing up the second story window and ducking inside.

Nobody _ever_ locked windows higher up. Barney had taught him that when they’d run away from their last foster home, where the man had been just as bad as their dad and the authorities hadn’t believed a couple of kids. Or just hadn’t cared.

Joining the circus, as hard as the work had been, had been worth it.

It wasn’t until the circus had changed hands that things had gone south for all of them, though some of the changes had been so subtle, Clint had failed to see what was happening till it was smacking him in the face.

And the goddamn shoulder.

When Clint had refused to move up from petty thievery and the occasional lookout to killing indiscriminately for them, or at all, really, it had been made pretty damn clear that he no longer had a place with them anymore.

It’d been three years, and Clint’s shoulder still ached sometimes, a reminder of the cost of his morals.

He was suddenly angry, and he kicked a chair across the room. Damn Barney! And damn Trickshot and all those assholes for taking Barney away from him. He refused to think Barney had always been like that. Barney had always watched out for Clint. Had protected him from their father, from their foster parents, had brought him to the safety of the circus. Had found them a home, and a family, no matter how odd it was.

The Barney Clint had known would never have done that to him.

The anger drained away just as quickly as it had risen, and he dropped tiredly onto the bed with a sigh, holding his head in his hands. He should report in, arrange to get his money, but before he could reach for his pocket, the tip of a knife was at his throat and he froze.

He _had_ been followed.

Clint’s eyes went wide. Had his target had a bodyguard? Shit, nobody had said anything about that and there hadn’t been any sign of one anywhere. But then, if he was good, then would Clint have seen him? Fuck! Clint hadn’t thought the man was important enough or paranoid enough for something like that.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why hadn’t he _checked?_

If he got out of this alive, he was charging his client double for not warning him. That was the sort of information that could get someone killed. Maybe even him.

There was a muffled sound behind him and he held back the groan of frustration. His aides had been on the fritz lately and this last job was supposed to give him enough to replace them, in addition to other necessities like food, new equipment. What a time for them not to work.

Barton luck strikes again. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He cleared his throat instead and shakily said, his throat bobbing against the blade dangerously with each word, “I can’t understand you, can you speak up?”

A pause, and then, a gruff voice said, “The man in the house, why did you kill him?”

“He was my job.”

“He was my mission. Are you a test?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clint said, trying to follow choppy words. Mission? So, he _was _a bodyguard? Or… or something else? “Were you his bodyguard? Are you here to kill me?”

There was another pause, but this time it felt more like a hesitation, like the man with the knife didn’t know what to say. “No. You are not my mission, you completed it for me. I will let you live, as thanks.”

The knife disappeared and Clint nearly sagged. Movement caught his eye and he blinked, dragging his eyes up and up and up.

There, before him, stood a man in dark gear, something similar to what Clint had seen other mercs wearing. His shoulder length hair hung in his face, some sort of mask hung loose – if this guy had spoken with _that _on, no wonder he’d sounded muffled.

He stood with an easy grace, the knife he’d briefly held at Clint’s throat being sheathed now by a metal arm, as if the man had decided that Clint wasn’t a danger to him.

Glints of metal.

A metal _arm_. If Clint hadn’t already known he’d been followed, this would have clinched it.

“Jesus, you’re just a kid,” the man muttered.

Clint immediately flushed and straightened up. “I am _not _just a kid!” he said, standing, fists clenching. “I can do the job was well as anyone else!” Christ, he couldn’t afford this guy going around and spreading rumors that he couldn’t, Clint would starve!

“Easy, kid,” the man motioned at him. “I meant no offense. I’m just surprised how good you are at your age.”

He turned his back on Clint, obviously confident that Clint couldn’t hurt him and that rankled to hell and back, picked up the chair, righted it and at down. “So who are you, kid?”

Clint glared at him mulishly. No way he was telling this merc his real name, even if it meant nothing out in the world. “Hawkeye. And who are you?”

The man paused. “I’m known by several names, but I think I can give you Winter.”

“Winter? Give me Winter? What do you – oh my god! _You’re the Winter Soldier_?” Clint almost whimpered. How was he not dead?

Winter shrugged. “It is the name my employers use when they send me out.”

“You’re a _myth_,” Clint said in awe. “You’re not supposed to _exist._”

He shrugged again.

Clint continued to stare. “So, uh, if you’re not gonna kill me, why are you still here?”

“I’m not supposed to report in for another day. I don’t often get time to myself. And I’m… curious,” Winter said the word strangely, his accent bouncing between non-descript and something strong that Clint thought was Brooklynn, but the circus had never gone there – they’d avoided big cities as often as possible – so he wasn’t actually sure about that. “So, how’d you get so good? You gotta be only, what, 16?”

“20, you ass!”

“Don’t be so cocky, kid,” Winter said. “You’re a stone’s throw away from being arrested.”

“Like hell I am,” Clint snarled, his fists balling up. How dare he – legend or not – come waltzing in here and criticize him?

“Hawkeye – I read a file on you. You take only certain types of jobs and you leave a calling card at every crime scene.”

“No, I don’t,” Clint said. “I’m not that stupid.”

“Your arrow, kid. You know anyone else who uses arrows to take out their targets? One of these days, they’ll trap you with the kind of job you tend to take, playing on your sympathies, and when you show up with your bow and your arrows, they’re gonna have all the proof they need and lock you away,” Winter drawled.

Clint ground his teeth but dammit, Winter wasn’t wrong. But what could he do? He could _make _his own damn arrows, he was _good _at it, and he was a sniper – he stayed far out of reach. If he was careful, they’d never catch him. but if he tried to make the shot and go back for the arrow to remove the evidence, he’d only be putting _himself _in a better position to get caught.

“What would you suggest?” Clint asked, sullen.

“Knowing more than one way to do a job. Changing it up could save your life.” Winter grinned. He stood. “How much can you learn in a day?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute mess for a while and has wound up the longest of the bunch. i had most of all the other chapters written, but it took me a while to get this fixed up the right way so it was coherent and i couldn't post anything, obviously, until this one was fixed, so I've been working on this for a little bit now...
> 
> Bingo Squares filled:  
Clint Barton Bingo - Secret Relationsihp  
Winterhawk Bingo - Handjobs (thats the start of your explicit rating folks. the rest will be in chapter 6)

That was just the first of their meetings.

Over the next decade, Clint kept running into Winter, always meeting in secret, away from the public. In abandoned houses, and warehouses. Atop roofs, in blind alleys, till they worked out a method for Winter to contact Clint.

Clint would never be able to contact him, Winter had explained. “I never know where and when I’ll be, don’t always have the same phones or contacts. And… it’s not safe for you to meet _them.”_

Winter had said _them_ with such horror hiding in his eyes, his posture, that Clint shuddered for him. He wanted to ask who they were, why Winter worked for them if he didn’t like them, but his tongue was glued to the inside of his mouth.

Time passed, but Winter never seemed to change, or to age, and he’d drop off the face of the planet without warning, without a trace, and then he’d turn up again somewhere else – sometimes a few hours, one time for a whole week, but most often, Clint would get a day, possibly two with Winter before he inevitably left. Some months there were many rendezvous but there was a bleak time when Clint didn’t see Winter for an entire year.

He’d spent that year afraid someone had killed him, but if the Winter Soldier had been killed, Clint – even as isolated as he was from the rest of the community – would have heard it.

And somewhere along the way, Clint fell in love.

The time they spent together had started as training, as a way to make Clint better than he was. for whatever reason, Winter had taken to him, and Clint wasn’t so stupid as to turn down his offer. Winter was strong and he was clever and Clint was a damn fast learner. Winter taught him hand to hand first, then rifles, then knives and then handguns. There was much more he could have been taught, Clint knew, but any time Winter found Clint, their time was limited.

At some point, Winter made the discovery that Clint couldn’t read. Clint looked away, ashamed, but Winter had only added that to the list of things he would teach Clint. And Clint, in turn, taught him ASL.

Eventually, their meetings began to soften, to become more than just training. Clint introduced Winter to pizza and Winter introduced Clint to sci – fi novels. They’d find themselves up on perches at sunrise or sunset simply talking.

Sometimes Winter said things that didn’t make any sense, referred to events that were surely before his time, and he didn’t seem to remember the simplest of things, like where he’d been born or what his birthday was.

“That’s okay,” Clint said. “We can make one up.”

Winter mused on that, then nodded. “When should we choose?”

“How about today? It’s as good a day as any and, if it’s your birthday, then we should celebrate it.” Clint leapt to his feet. “Give me… like… two hours – I’ll be right back!”

He returned with a couple of cupcakes, a handful of candles and a clumsily wrapped gift. Winter looked a little lost and lot overwhelmed as he followed Clint’s instructions and blew out the candle and unwrapped the gift.

Clint blushed. “Wasn’t sure what to get ya,” he said. “I hope you like it.”

Winter nodded and smiled. “I do, thank you.” He wrapped the little beaded leather bracelet around his right wrist and Clint helped him tie it off with a pleased grin. Clint brought out the disposable camera and snapped a dozen photos, both of Winter and himself, no idea if they’d come out but hey, one of them had to be good enough to keep, right?

“Where do you go when you’re not here?” Clint asked.

“Away,” Winter said.

“Away _where?”_ Clint pushed.

“Away – to a place you should never go. Clint, promise me you’ll never try to follow me, all right?” Winter grasped his shoulders Clint’s shoulders, his eyes boring into Clint’s with fear.

Clint still didn’t know Winters name, though he’d long ago given Winter his own. At this point, he was positive Winter didn’t have one. Or at least, like his birthday, couldn’t remember it.

What had happened to him? Who did he work for that engendered this fear?

Swallowing, Clint nodded and Winter deflated, his forehead coming to rest against Clint’s, his breath coming harshly.

That was the first time they kissed.

It wasn’t Clint’s first, but it was the first that meant _anything _to him. Winter’s lips were gentle as they moved against Clint’s, Clint’s stomach swooping in a way it never had before, his lips parting on a gasp, his eyes fluttering shut at the touch of Winters hands cupping his jaw, threading through his hair.

The kiss was absolute perfection.

And it wasn’t the last. Soon, every time they met, they greeted each other with a kiss, said goodbye with another. Their time was now spent the way it had been before with kissing liberally sprinkled through their conversations.

Cuddling was good too, Clint found, Winter having a tendency to curl up around him like an octopus. Clint would never have thought he was a cuddler until Winter had initiated it, but god did it feel good, though in a much different way than the kissing had. He giggled and Winter looked down at him curiously, raising an eyebrow in question. Winter didn’t talk much when he didn’t have to, but that was okay, because Clint could sometimes talk enough for the both of them.

“Just thinking, what would the people in our business think if they found out the legendary Winter Soldier was a cuddler?”

Winter snorted. “They’d never believe you.”

Clint laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Through a series of missions in rapid succession, Clint found himself with more time with Winter than usual, and they took advantage of it, finding time to kiss, to cuddle, to occasionally go a little further.

Today, when they’d met, Clint had been desperate for Winter, to feel him, to touch him. They’d had this chance all too rarely and Winter evidently had felt the same, pulling him roughly into an alley and pressing him against a brick wall, their kiss hard and needy. Clint fumbled his hands between them, tugging at Winters pants.

“What is it you want?” Winter said directly into Clint’s ear before sucking at the sensitive spot of Clint’s jaw. “We don’t have time for a lot. I have to be on a roof across town in less than an hour.”

“Fuck,” Clint said, breathlessly, “I have a meetup in thirty for a job.” They didn’t talk about what brought them there, dreading the day they may be at cross purposes.

Clint finally got Winter’s pants open and he dipped his hand inside, drawing out his thickening cock.

Winter groaned lowly, the sound lost to Clint but the vibrations against his neck making him tremble and bite his lip. He took Winter in hand, thumbing at the top of his dick and slowly shifting his hand down and up.

Winter thrust into Clint’s hand, his own closing around Clint’s dick and Clint whimpered. When had Winter even gotten his pants open? Damn the man was sneaky.

And good.

Fuck, he was good.

“Can’t get caught, Clint, need to be quiet,” Winter murmured, slotting his lips over Clint, kissing him deep, swallowing each ill-advised sound as their hands worked each other to completion.

Clint came with a shudder, his hands stuttering as he stroked Winter until he came too.

Winter stroked Clint’s face with wonder, and Clint leaned into his hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the palm.

After a few long moments, just holding each other close with lazy kisses, Clint cleaned them up and with a forlorn, backward glance, the two of them went on their respective ways.

* * *

Sometimes, they got more than just five minutes, if they were lucky.

Tonight had been one of those nights, near ten years after they’d met. Clint was pleasantly sore as he lay with Winter, his head on Winter’s chest, running a hand idly over his arm, feeling Winter’s breaths, letting them raise him up and down.

That had been… amazing, Clint thought giddily. It had been his first time going this far and he didn’t regret. But he also couldn’t see himself doing it with anyone other than Winter. He frowned as his hand slid down Winters arm and didn’t catch on the little leather bracelet that had accidentally marked the beginning of _this._

“What happened to the bracelet?”

“They took it from me,” Winter said. “Weapons don’t have possessions; they _are _a possession.”

Clint inhaled sharply and pushed up to look down at Winter’s face. “That’s wrong. Shit, baby, you gotta know that’s wrong!”

“James,” Winter said, suddenly, shifting beneath Clint nervously.

Clint frowned at the sudden change of subject, at the name Winter had blurted out. He looked up at the shadowed face. “What?”

“James. A name, my name, I think. I’ve used many over the years but that one… that one resonates,” Winter – _James _– said. “If I’m not just a weapon, then I want… I want a _name_.”

Clint shifted to press a kiss on his lips. “If you want to be called James, then I’ll happily call you James. I’ll call you anything you want, baby.”

James exhaled and Clint settled back down into his arms. His fingers still roved over James naked wrist. “I don’t like that it’s gone. That something I gave you, that you liked, was taken from you without permission.”

“Neither do I,” James admitted. “I liked having a physical reminder of you when you’re not with me. It… settled me when things got bad.”

They didn’t talk about James past, often. Not anymore.

In fact, he shied away from it, but Clint understood more than most not wanting to talk about your past. It wasn’t like his was filled with fluffy clouds and pretty rainbows either. But in James’s case, it was because it agitated him to realize from Clint’s questions that his memory was kinda full of holes.

It was so strange, and Clint hoped James hadn’t lost anything important. “How much do you think you’ve forgotten?” Clint asked.

“Too much. One of these days, I’m afraid… I’ll forget you,” James said. there was fear in his voice, his fingers tightening over Clint’s arm, clasping over his right wrist.

“Why do you forget so much? Are you sick?” Clint asked, suddenly, fear rising in him too.

“I’m made to forget,” James said simply, ignoring or just not catching the horror that ran through Clint at that admission. “It makes my job easier.”

“Is this – am _I _allowed?” Clint asked, bolting upright, using a hand on James’s naked chest for leverage and to steady himself. He had the sudden realization that he was _not _allowed. If James couldn’t keep something so innocent as a bracelet, there was no way he’d be allowed _Clint._

James slid his hand down Clint’s arm, covering his hand with his metal one. “No, but I choose you anyway. As long as you are safe from them. The moment you are not, I won’t come again.”

“You’re talking like this is going to end,” Clint said, choking on the words.

“Because it will, Clint,” James said sadly. “The time will come when we can’t be together anymore, I’ll be made to forget you. Promise me you’ll move on, forget me if you need to – “ James’s voice cracked, as if he didn’t like that idea and Clint sure as hell knew _he _didn’t. “Whatever you need to do so that one of us is safe and happy.”

“I don’t want either of us to forget the other,” Clint said.

James looked at him, there was a deep sadness in his eyes as his thumb caressed Clint’s wrist. “I won’t have a choice, Clint.”

Clint watched James rubbing his thumb over the pulse point of his wrist. It was soothing, hypnotic – and he suddenly had an idea. Something like the bracelet, but more permanent, something they could _both _carry as a reminder.

* * *

Clint worked on the designs in between missions, hoping to have them ready for the next time they met up, hoped they could find a tattooist who could accommodate them both as last minute walk-ins – with James’s situation, it wasn’t like they could make an appointment.

Thankfully, things worked out a few months down the line. The tattoo healed up quickly for James, so quickly, the tattooist was muttering to himself as he went, but when it was over, Clint beamed at Bucky proudly as they linked their hands together- Clint’s left James’s right, the wrap around tattoos created to look like bracelets.

They were near identical. On the top of their wrists in purple, gray and black, were an arrow and target meeting over a star, with little braided endcaps on either side. Coming off those endcaps, wrapping around and under their wrists, the bracelet ‘straps’ were formed with words – and that’s where they differed. Each set of words was written in each other’s hand writing. Clint’s said “Remember Winter” and James’s said, “Don’t Forget Your Hawk”.

“Let’s see them take that away from you,” Clint said softly, kissing the inside of James’s wrist.

“Don’t…” James said thickly. “I’m sure they’ll still try.”

“Then I hope they don’t succeed.”

Clint was glad of the tattoos when he and James didn’t see each other for over six months. Every time Clint got lonely, every time he thought of James, Clint would run his fingers over his wrist, remembering the way James looked at him, like he’d hung the moon.

Clint rather suspected he looked the same.

Sighing, he took his hand off the tattoo and got back to work. He had a mission to focus on, a real jack ass of a politician involved in some sort of child slavery overseas and Clint _really _didn’t approve of it.

Only, everything went wrong.

It was raining, his access to the prime spot had been cut off, and his target had a bodyguard, one he hadn’t been able to spot. He slid down off the roof and landed in the dumpster with a strangled cry, biting his lip harshly to hold it back. Clint pulled himself back out painfully and got to his feet, slinging his bow over his shoulder.

It was night and a deserted area, he wouldn’t make a scene.

However, he could easily be followed, no crowd to get lost in, but there was no help for it. He had to get back, had to take care of the gunshot wound. It wasn’t life-threatening – if he got it taken care of asap. Eyes darting about, he employed everything James had ever taught him to get back to his chosen hideout.

He’d barely gotten inside, dropping his bow on the table, when his leg gave out on him and he stumbled, tumbling against the couch and hitting the floor hard. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, clamping his hand down over his thigh and clenching his teeth.

The door banged open and he jerked, eyes going wide at the familiar silhouette in the window. It was as wet and bedraggled as Clint, dripping all over the floor, but it was a damn welcome – if somewhat confusing - sight.

“James? What are you - ? How did you know I was here?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” James said. He crossed the room with lightning focus, helping move Clint up onto the couch properly. “Lay back and stay still.” He stripped Clint of his gear in record time, though some of the cloth had already stuck and pulled when he peeled Clint’s water logged and blood soaked pants off.

James cursed when he saw the wound. “Fuck, it didn’t go through,” he muttered. “Okay, this is going to hurt.”

Something clicked in Clint’s head at the words, the fact that James knew where he was, had already known he was hurt before he’d come inside. Had gone directly for his wound like he knew exactly where Clint had been shot.

Clint went cold. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening.

He shoved James away and jerked back, clenching his teeth at the pain before growling. “You! You were the other gunman – you _shot _me!” How could Winter _do _that to him. Tears pricked his eyes.

“Yes.” James said. He didn’t explain himself, just stated it, his face going blank in a way Clint didn’t often see, the way that scared the shit out of him. He moved forward again. “Now lay back. We need to –“

“Don’t touch me!” Clint said, scrambling backwards with renewed, desperate energy, voice going high and maybe a little hysterical. “You _shot _me! Fuck! I can’t believe you…” Clint was breathing hard, Winter staring at him stony faced. How could he have ever believed this man _cared _for him?

“Clint,” James said, his voice calm, the kind of calm you used on someone stupid. And maybe Clint _was _stupid. Stupid for trusting someone with the background Winter had. “If you don’t tend to your wound, you will bleed out. Please, just let me – “

“Fuck you! You shot me! You don’t get to touch me – you don’t get to pretend you didn’t _do _that!” Clint’s voice shook. He felt lightheaded, dizzy. James wasn’t wrong about the blood loss. “You were protecting that _ass! _How could you?”

Why had Clint expected James to be any different than all the other people in his life? Clint swallowed against the betrayal. His parents, the foster system, Barney, the circus. Again and again and again. And now James too. After all these years, James had finally done what everyone else always did to Clint.

He’d thought James was different.

He thought they’d _had _something special.

Clint choked back a sob. “Why?” Clint’s voice cracked and he winced at the whining, plaintive note in his own voice.

Finally, James’s mask broke. The devastation and despair on his face was enough to knock Clint off his feet if he’d been standing, James’s hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Clint, if I didn’t, you’d be dead!”

That gave Clint pause. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“If my handlers figured out you were there, my orders are to kill. And they’ll make sure I follow up on it or send someone else who can. You can’t die on me, Clint,” James choked. “You can’t. And I can’t be the one to kill you either, and I’ll gut anyone who comes after, no matter the consequences.”

“You… violated orders… for me?” Clint whispered, Clint’s panic filled mind watching in a confused haze as James’s breathing grew harsh and his shoulders hunched in.

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t lose you. If you’re gone… you’re my light, Clint. You’re the only thing in my life that makes any sense. I don’t think I can survive without you – I don’t think I’ll be _me _anymore.”

Clint’s breath caught at the admission.

James shook it off and turned to face Clint again. “Will you let me help you? Please?” James begged.

Shakily, Clint nodded and James sagged in relief. “Then lay back and stay still. We gotta get that bullet outta ya,” he said, that Brooklynn drawl suddenly coming back thick and deep. “And I’m sorry, doll, but it’s gonna hurt.”

“Story of my life,” Clint said, bracing himself.

James was right. It hurt and Clint screamed through clenched teeth until he mercifully passed out.

When he came to, James had already cleaned up and the wound was nicely bandaged.

“I can’t stay,” James said. “Please don’t come back, don’t follow me or try again,” he begged. “I can’t shoot you gain, but they can make me do it.”

Clint shuddered. He groaned and stood. “We gotta get you out of there. They don’t treat you like a person, James. That’s no way to live.”

James shook his head. “There’s no way out for me. These people – they’re everywhere Clint. Their fingers are in every pie and if I run, they’ll only find me, bring me back and wipe my memories.”

Clint’s blood ran cold again. How could he have forgotten – ? He didn’t know how it was possible that they – whoever they were – did this to James, but this wasn’t the first time they’d talked about James being made to forget.

That he might forget Clint. But he hadn’t yet. They’d taken the bracelet away, but they hadn’t taken Clint away yet.

**“**If they take away your memories, how come you remember me?”

“They don't know about you. This new guy… he thinks as long as I’m behaving, I don’t need to be wiped, except maybe for the details of certain missions. Can’t wipe what you don’t know exists, not unless they decided to get the whole thing which…”

James swallowed, his hands moving carefully over Clint’s skin, down his arms and grasping at his wrists. “ – it wouldn’t be the first time they’d done it. I’ve lost so much. I can’t lose you too. I do what they say, I’ve done some real bad things, because I know I don’t have any choice anyway and I won’t, I won’t forget you. If there’s one choice I can make, you are always my choice.”

Clint stared in horror. He didn’t know he could hurt so bad on someone else’s behalf like this. This couldn’t be allowed to stand. ‘No... No... James...” Clint reached for him. 

James’s hands slid that little bit more, locking their fingers together and looked at Clint with earnest desperation, with deadly seriousness, sadness and fear hiding in the back of his eyes.

“Clint, this is important. They must never know about you. For both our sakes,”

“I’ll get you out of there, James,” Clint swore, choking. “I can’t lose you either, and knowing you’re there… I’ll get you out, I promise.”

Shaking his head, James closed his eyes. “Don’t, Clint, please. You don't think I haven't tried? I'm never really free of them. I can't ever hide from them. They're too big, everywhere.” James’s voice cracked, hopelessness washed over his face, a look Clint never wanted to see again. “If you try, it won’t go well.”

Clint pulled James to him and tried to hold on tight, but the adrenaline crash and the blood loss had taken its toll and when he woke, James was gone and Clint had no idea when he’d see him again.

But he knew one thing for damn sure…

He had to fix this, somehow, or die trying.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Square filled - Clint Barton Bingo - Phil/Clint
> 
> okay guys, this was a hard one for me to write cause... Phil. I like Phil. and i can see it, but i just had a hard time writing it and doing him any justice.

Clint’s past was murky, filled with vague dreams and a sense of loss as he faced Phil Coulson across the table, his hands handcuffed behind him.

Not like those would hold him, but he was holding off, biding his time.

Coulson flipped through Clint’s file. It was depressingly thick. To know SHIELD had been able to track him, to keep such close tabs on him.

It meant Clint had done his teachers lessons a disservice. What teacher, though? Not Barney or Trickshot, someone else. And why did it fill Clint with the certainty that his teacher would have been very disappointed in him?

“Clinton Barton, second son of Edith and Harold. Your brother is Bernard Barton, whereabouts unknown. Your parents were killed in a car accident and you and your brother bounced from home to home till you disappeared.” Coulson looked up. “That’s where the _official _files end. SHIELD files continue. You ran away to the circus, learned archery and became the Amazing Hawkeye. You broke away and went solo as a vigilante with a very clear calling card – though the usual authorities never made the connection.”

“You’re very particular about the type of job you take on, always questionable people, always folks who do harm to others, and you’re good at what you do, but this last mission was different. You got caught,” Coulson said, closing the file and leaning over the table.

Clint snorted. If that’s what you want to call what happened. He ignored the part that he didn’t actually _remember_ what happened.

“What changed, Clinton?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I’m offering you a chance. You could do mostly the same work – ridding the world of the bad guys – but you’d do it on a payroll, with back up and government sanctioning. You just have to come clean and follow our rules,” Coulson said.

Clint’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He ignored the headache that pounded through his skull. “That sounds too good to be true,” he said.

Coulson leaned back. “Fair enough. Why don’t I let you think about it?”

He stood, picked up the file and walked over to the door. He raised his hand to knock, but Clint couldn’t help it.

“I don’t remember.”

Coulson turned to face him. “Remember what?”

“Something… something went wrong… but I can’t _remember_.” He rubbed at his head, the pounding in his skull worse the harder he tried to think about it. Coulson made a noise and Clint looked up to see Coulson staring at his completely free hands with a resigned sigh.

“Should have known those wouldn’t hold you. How long?”

“Since before you walked in here,” Clint said proudly, the headache receding slightly while he gloated.

Coulson nodded. “All right then. I’ll send in a doctor. You _were _found unconscious at the edge of a blast radius. It’s possible you have had some head trauma. It would account for your recent memory loss. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He left, leaving Clint alone with his swirling thoughts, thoughts he couldn’t quite grasp.

The next day, tired of being alone and always on the run, always cold and hungry, Clint said yes to SHIELDS offer.

After that, things were both a whirlwind and not. The next few months were spent in evaluations and training and Clint would be so very sick of it all – if it didn’t also come with a roof overhead, stable income and all the food he could eat.

It took a while for people to warm up to him – or maybe it was the other way around – but eventually Cint found himself fitting in better than he had in just about anywhere else.

He was still lonely, however, and often woke up with a vague sense of panic, of loss, that he couldn’t quite pin.

Through it all, Coulson was his handler, then he was Phil. He was a bulwark of Clint’s new life, helping him get the schooling that he _should _have gotten, encouraging him to make friends until he _was _a friend, and then, a few years down the line – after Bobbi and several other spectacular failures – Phil became something _more._

Clint still wasn’t sure how it had happened.

Sometimes, Clint would look at Phil, at his blue eyes, and he’d remember another set of blue eyes, framed with long hair, and he’d be filled with such longing it _hurt._

NotPhil, he called him, but only in his head, because he couldn’t remember. But NotPhil wasn’t there and Phil was, and Phil cared about Clint even when Clint couldn’t care _less. _Phil had been there right after a mission gone wrong, when Clint was hurt badly enough that he couldn’t leave SHIELDS Medical unit for weeks. And again when Clint returned home on mandatory leave.

Phil was there to keep him from going stir crazy. Phil was there when Clint woke shouting from dreams he couldn’t remember. Phil held him and comforted him when Clint felt so weighed down with worthlessness that he couldn’t bother getting out of bed unless he had a mission.

Phil just… happened.

And for the first time in his working memory, Clint felt like he _mattered _to somebody, mattered enough that if something happened to him, Clint would be missed.

It was a heady feeling, and a humbling one too, because where he’d gone on missions before with an uncaring attitude other than of professional pride, now he worried that if he screwed up, he’d be leaving Phil alone.

And Clint was certain that loneliness was just about the worst way to feel. Phil helped him feel a little less lonely.

But sometimes even Phil wasn’t enough, and in _those_ moments, Clint would rub his thumb over the tattoo wrapping around his left wrist. He couldn’t remember getting it, or why, or when. Only knew that it was important.

Remember Winter.

What did it mean?

Phil sat beside him on their couch, draping a thick blanket over Clint’s shoulders. His own hand came up over Clint’s, slid alongside his, brushing a finger over Clint’s wrist, over the tattoo.

“It’s important to you,” Phil said. “But what does it mean?”

Clint's stomach twisted as he stared down at it. He swallowed and his voice was quiet and hoarse - and not because of their recent activities. "I don't know. God, I wish I did. I feel like if I could, the answers to a lot of things would come with it. I feel… like it’s right there, on the tip of my tongue."

“Is that why you fight so hard to keep it?” Phil asked gently. Clint knew he was treading carefully. Someone had suggested, early on, that he get it removed. The very idea of it panicked him.

“It says to remember, Phil. I’ve already failed in that. If it was important enough that I thought I shouldn’t forget it, then erasing it would... it feels like...” Clint struggled for words. The tattoo still evoked conflicting feelings in him: love and fear and sadness, longing and desperation. He didn't know what it _meant_ and he feared he never would.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said. He let go of Clint’s wrist and turned to face Clint better. Phil cradled Clint’s face, wiping tears away from his cheeks. Clint hadn't even realized he was crying. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Maybe someday you’ll remember.”

_ \- Sweetheart, a rough voice moaned against his neck. God, I love you, doll – _

Clint gasped, a sob tearing through, mourning something – someone – he had lost. Phil pulled him in carefully, tucking Clint against his chest.

“It’s okay, Clint, I’ve got you,” Phil murmured.

“I don’t deserve you,” Clint choked out the words into Phil’s button-down shirt. “I’m a mess.”

“Maybe so,” Phil said. “But I’ve been there, myself. Most people have.”

Phil was so earnest; Clint couldn’t put everything he felt into words. That he didn’t deserve Phil’s love because he was certain he didn’t love Phil as much as Phil loved him, that his love had been given elsewhere and even though he couldn’t remember where, his heart hadn’t forgotten.

It left Clint conflicted. Because he _wanted _to remember, but he was absolutely sure without knowing why he was so godddamn sure, that if he did, then he’d lose Phil, and Phil would wind up being another broken heart that Clint had collected without ever meaning to.

Phil didn’t deserve that; therefore, Clint didn’t deserve Phil, but he was too selfish to let go.

What did that say about him? That even after all this time, he wasn’t the hero, the good guy, that he wanted and pretended to be?

Probably. Good guys would let Phil go, wouldn’t keep him trapped in a relationship so one-sided. Hero’s weren’t selfish.

But Clint was lonely and he _did _love Phil… just… not as much as he should. Clint wasn’t sure he _could _love anybody else as much as they deserved. Something in him seemed to be broken, lost.

That Phil knew that, could see it plain as day, and love Clint anyway was just a mark of the kind of person Phil was.

And Phil deserved more, he deserved _better._

Clint clung to Phil and struggled to voice those things, struggled to get the breath he needed to set things right.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a broken voice. “I’m sorry. I don’t… I _don’t _deserve you. I should let you go, but I don’t, cause I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” Phil said, as if it were that easy.

“But…” Clint swallowed, closed his eyes and braced himself. “I don’t… I don’t love you as much as I should, as much as you love me.”

“Clint, I already know that.”

Wait… what? Clint pushed away from Phil with trembling arms. “Huh?”

Phil smiled at him and it was warm and it was sad and it hurt all over again to see. “You love someone else, and that’s okay. I figured that out a long time ago, the way you’ve been unable to let yourself settle down for too long. Maybe someday you _will _remember who you lost, and say you’re right -maybe we’re not meant to be – that doesn’t change how happy we can be _now._ Or maybe, whoever it was, is gone – you might find yourself suddenly able to move on. In either case, you’re allowed to love other people, allowed to be happy. Not all love is the same. First loves, true love, familial, brothers and sisters in arms and all the levels in between. It doesn’t make it any less real and I will treasure the moments we have together.”

And there Phil went again, proving once more that Clint didn’t deserve him, being so goddamn understanding and all sorts of introspective or whatever.

Clint smiled wetly, leaning forward into a kiss, Phil obliging him eagerly.

Deserved? Maybe not. But allowed?

Clint would work on believing that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Square filled - Winterhawk Bingo - Crying
> 
> lots of crying.  
Major Character Death - in canon but offscreen.  
there's a funeral and lots of angst - post avengers.

After the Helicarrier, after Loki, after the battle and the shawarma, with his head pounding from more than Nat’s cognitive recalibration, Clint slipped away to his apartment to lick his wounds.

He took out his aids, turned off his phone, locked his door and huddled under his blankets but he slept poorly. He dreamed of Phil’s death and shook, Phil’s stormy blue eyes changing to something a little grayer, but still undeniably blue, eyes filled with love and sadness. He woke up gasping, guilt choking him.

Even now, with the specter of Phil’s death hanging over him, the guilt of having _caused it_, even if his hand hadn’t been the one directly responsible, those eyes haunted him.

In fact, if anything, the images were stronger than they had been, twisting about and wrapping him all up till he was filled with fresh grief – and guilt - for _two _people, not one.

Clint found himself in his own closet, in his boxers, the blankets from his bed dragged with him, trembling. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in there, images of Phil _and someone else_ swimming in his vision, both of them staring at him accusingly, when a shadow passed in front of the closet doors. Terror filled him – _can’t let them find me. Gotta save him_ – and his fingers clenched on the only thing that had held him steady throughout all these years.

The closet door whipped open and Clint jerked back, his bow coming up, arrow knocked and ready. He stared unseeingly at the figure before him, breathing hard and his hands trembling. The figure before him had short, red hair and he stared at it for a long moment.

“Nat?” he choked out, eyes stinging. He’d almost killed her. Not just now, but on the helicarrier. As surely as it was his fault that Phil was dead, and so many others.

He’d fought her and gone for the kill.

She knelt beside him slowly. She spoke but he didn’t hear her. She moved towards him like he was a scared animal – which he supposed he kind of was. He was shaking, he realized, when she finally placed a hand on his arm, lowered his bow to the floor, eased it out of his hands then came to sit beside him, drawing him into her arms.

He broke, then, and cried. Huge, wracking sobs he couldn’t hear but sure as hell felt. Her hands, dainty and deadly, held him gently, soothed over his back, through his hair. She spoke, the words unheard but the vibrations of her voice against his neck was soothing.

Clint fell asleep like that, his dreams plagued with faces with blue eyes of different shades – Phil, Loki and the third with long hair – the one that had been with him the longest. Guilt and fear wrapped around him and he jerked awake, found himself restrained and pushed, fought to get free –

He tangled in the blankets he’d forgotten that he’d wrapped himself in as he stood and fell, hitting the floor with his face and groaning. Every muscle in Clint’s body _ached_ and he was sure he had wounds he hadn’t attended. Slowly, he picked himself up, tripping on the pile of blankets. Where was his bow? Where was Nat?

Whirling back to the closet – he found the bow set gently in the corner and no sign of Nat, but a smell pervaded his apartment, penetrated the haze around his senses, and he realized she was in the kitchen.

Limping toward his bedtable, Clint put his aids back in, wincing as they settled into place. He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed, then turned to face the music.

He padded quietly into the kitchen, finding Nat with her back to him, his coffee pot brewing sweet ambrosia.

“Yeah, I found him. No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Nat said into a phone and he froze. “Steve, just keep Fury busy. Clint’s gonna need time. Trust me, what he’s been through… “ her voice dropped and her shoulders hunched. “I’ve been there. The guilt is… the guilt can be overwhelming. Of course, I’ll keep you posted.” She hung up, placed the phone gently on the counter, then reached above her with deliberate movements, pulling down two mugs.

She had to know he was standing there. Nat was too good at what she did _not _too.

“I get it,” she said quietly. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”

Clint shuddered and took a step toward her, then another, till he’d come to stand directly behind her. He dropped his head onto her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to her back, not ready to look her in the eyes. “I’m so sorry, Nat.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Clint,” she said softly.

“I can’t help but feel it was,” he said. He wrapped his arms around her waist, taking comfort in her. They stood there like that till his coffee machine finished gurgling and she’d poured the coffee into their mugs and they’d sat at his table. They sat kitty corner, their legs touching, their arms brushing and Clint felt grounded by it, by her.

“Steve wants to see you and Fury wants a debrief,” Nat said when they were halfway through.

A shudder ran though him so hard, he had to put his mug down. “I can’t – “

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. Is there anything I can do? Anything you’d be okay to let me do?”

Clint smiled wryly at her. “You know me so well,” he said. “You know my every secret.”

“There are still some things I do not,” she said softly.

Clint gave her a wan, tired smile. “I don’t think I know everything either.” He took a breath. “Nat, I feel like something in my heads been knocked loose, something important. But I can't figure out what it is yet, everything’s still settling.”

“Something bad?” she asked, concern on her face.

He shook his head. “I’m not sure. Trust me, as soon as I know, I’ll tell you.”

“There’s some concern about… “

“About the brainwashing? That there could be lingering side effects?” Clint asked. He huffed out a mirthless chuckle. “Yeah, me too.”

“Clint,” Nat said. He looked at her and she was staring down, at his hand. He’d let go of the mug and was tracing the tattoo on his wrist. He looked back up and their gazes met. “Maybe you’ll get something good from this. Maybe you’ll remember where it came from, what it meant?”

“What if it means something bad?” Clint asked, his voice wobbling.

She hummed, looking at him. “Do you really not notice? Whenever you need comfort, whenever your anxious, your hand goes straight to that tattoo. You may not remember _why_ you have it, or what it _meant_, but it’s important to you. It brings you comfort. Something like that, it can’t be all that bad.”

“But what if something bad happened? What if that’s why I can’t remember?” Clint asked. His vision went wonky and he remembered a soft smile, and sad blue eyes that were lighting up, a curtain of hair falling in the way till a hand -_his hand _– reached forward, tucking it back. The eyes became shy, delighted and –

“Clint?” Nat called. “Where did you go?”

He jerked out of the vision and made a frustrated sound, dropping his head in his hands. “I feel like I’m so close, Nat. like… like it’s right on the tip of my tongue.” He’d said that before, to Phil, once upon a time. But he’d been wrong, then, had misjudged just how close to the surface of his memory it was.

“It’ll come to you, yastreb. Don’t force it,” she said.

* * *

Coulson’s funeral was a mess. No, it was probably fine, it was Clint who was a mess. Clint who was unable to face his guilt with the coffin in front of him. Clint who couldn’t make himself go up and pay his respects.

Instead, he run. He’d stumbled out of there like the Chitauri were still on his heels, people staring and whispering as he left.

Steve followed him as Clint stood at the edge of the graveyard, leaning with his head bowed, arms braced on the hood of a car.

“I’m sorry. Phil seemed like he was a good man,” Steve said.

“He was,” Clint whispered, tears falling down his face. “I don’t deserve to be here.”

“Clint – it wasn’t your fault – “ Steve said, reaching out for Clint.

Shoving away from the car, Clint evaded Steve’s hand and growled. “How many times do you tell yourself that? You ever believe it?”

Steve froze and Clint laughed, bitterly. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Fuck,” Clint choked, scrubbing a hand down his face, spinning in place and slamming his fist into the nearest car. “Fuck!” He pulled his fist back to punch it again – only to find it caught in Steve’s hand.

“I get it, Clint, the guilt,” Steve said. “I do. But this… don’t do this.”

Clint hiccoughed, breath catching on a sob. For about the millionth time this week alone, tears streamed down his face. His knees wobbled and Steve caught him on his way down.

He felt… off… unbalanced.

Smaller hands then Steve’s touched him, pulled him in and held him close. Natasha’s fingers curled over his head, scratched through his hair and he shook in her arms. She murmured, but Clint couldn’t hear her over his own sobs. She steered him away down the line of cars, gently pushing him into one, Steve trailing along behind them.

“Go back, Steve,” Natasha said. “They’re going to notice that Captain America’s missing.”

“I could drive – “ he started, then sighed. Clint could only imagine the look she’d given him. Steve left as Clint curled into Nat, letting the tears fall, unable to stop the sobs. His hand ached from the force of his punch.

She hummed, letting him cry it out, just as she was letting him hide from the many suspicious, angry looks being shot his way that day. It only reinforced everything he’d known – that it was his fault.

All of it.

It was his fault Phil and countless others were dead. His plan that had nearly taken down the Helicarrier. He couldn’t have accounted for Thor or Captain America, and thank fucking god for that. But he still enabled Loki to enact his plan.

A plan that had brought countless aliens to attack NYC. People had died, there.

That was on him too.

And now he was haunted by eyes, eyes, eyes. all of them blue, all of them bringing with it a guilt that weighed heavily on his soul. Loki’s glowing blue eyes he feared. The same blue glow he’d seen in the mirror in his own eyes. He shuddered. As for Phil and the unknown eyes that had been haunting his dreams for a long time now, the knowledge that he had failed the two them epically was strong, so goddamn strong.

He’d killed Phil, and Clint was suddenly, absolutely positive, that he’d killed the man with the long hair and gray blue eyes, and that was _why _he didn’t remember – because whoever it had been, he’d been important.

Clint had loved him. And he’d killed him, just like he’d killed Phil. Clint was poison, pure and simple.

It was why he’d always be alone. It was better for everyone else that way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> squares filled  
Bucky Barnes Bingo - It's Not Your Fault  
Winterhawk Bingo - Presumed Dead
> 
> (I had a lot of this chapter imagined before i even started writing anything on paper)

Clint sat in Avengers Tower staring at the tv. To be honest, he’d been glued to it for almost a week.

“Why are you _still_ staring at that thing? It’s the same report, over and over,” Tony said, walking up to Clint and standing beside him. “Look, Steve’s fine, Nat’s fine. Fury’s not _really _dead, he was just faking it. Drama queen.” Tony muttered the last bit but Clint ignored him, sitting forward a little when a man appeared on the screen.

There was something so damn familiar about him, something Clint could almost put his finger on. Long hair, metal arm, that killer grace.

The cameras didn’t get close enough, but something had Clint convinced the man had gray-blue eyes.

And he’d also tried to kill Fury, Steve, Nat and some other guy Clint had never met before.

A door slammed shut somewhere in the tower and Tony turned, but Clint couldn’t take his eyes of the screen. There was a low-level ache behind his eyes, almost near constant these days, ever since Loki and the Chitauri, with occasional spikes for the worse.

Something blocked his view and he jerked back.

Looking up, he saw Natasha, blank faced and absolutely still. Oh fuck, she was angry. At him? What had he done?

“Where were you?” Her voice was the deadly calm that sent most men running.

“Excuse me?”

“Steve and I could have used some back up in DC. I called you, I left you messages. Why didn’t you come?”

“No you didn’t,” he said, blinking up at her, confused.

“Ah, yes she did,” Tony said. “You threw your phone against the wall.” He pointed across the room, where a good sized dent clearly showed, though the phone had been long since cleaned up.

“I don’t remember that,” Clint said, confused.

Natasha leaned forward and Clint shrank back against the couch till she’d bracketed him. He swallowed. Best friend or not, Nat could be damn scary when she wanted to be. He just wasn’t used to it being pointed at him.

“I mentioned HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD and you went radio silent. What the hell, Clint! Do you realize what that looks like?”

“I… what?” Clint blinked up at her, the pain in his head increasing. Clint’s gut was all twisted up with the idea that she thought he’d been in on something, but she was wrong. He shook his head to clear it, going dizzy with the pounding behind his eyes.

“Steve, what are you doing here? You're supposed to still be in a hospital in DC,” Tony said, his voice cutting through the room. Clint looked over to see Tony crossing his arms over his chest. “In fact, you _forbid _me from coming down to get you because you still – and I quote ‘had some healing up to do, Tony. Stop fussing’ end quote.”  
  
Steve stared around the room, at Clint and Nat, taking in everything in a split second. His sheepish look changed to something a little more Captain America. "Yeah, well, I'm suddenly glad I'm not. Plus, I'm fine. Now, what's going on?"  
  
Clint threw his hands up in the air, glaring at Nat. “I don’t actually know. I think I’m being accused of something.”  
  
Nat looked back down at him with a sigh. “Look, I don’t want to believe it. I know you, but even you have to admit Clint, it’s a little suspicious that when I call for back up against HYDRA you ghosted me.”  
  
“No, I didn’t. You never called,” Clint said.   
  
Steve’s eyebrows went up alarmingly and Tony took a step towards Clint and Nat. “Uh, yeah, she did. We _just _went over this. How do you not remember? She just accused you of being in cahoots with HYDRA.”  
  
Clint frowned. “No she didn’t. I think I’d remember if my best friend accused me of something like that.” He rubbed at his head tiredly, the ache stronger than normal.  
  
“Clint, what’s wrong with your head?” Nat asked.   
  
“Nothing. Little bit of a headache. It’s normal. Probably caffeine withdrawal.” Clint shrugged. “Anyway, shouldn’t we be more worried about that?” he said, pointing towards the tv.  
  
Tony groaned behind them. “He’s been watching that for a week. Has a fit if anyone turns it off.”  
  
Nat looked at him, her eyes growing wide and Clint felt a satisfaction that she finally had cottoned on to the urgency of the thing on the tv when she said, “Oh my god.”   
  
She knelt in front of him, and placed a hand over his – which was rubbing at his left wrist, at the tattoo that said ‘Remember Winter’.

“Oh my god Clint,” she said, her voice going hoarse.   
  
Clint frowned. “Nat? what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”  
  
“What is going on?” Tony shouted. There was a shuffling behind them, words spoken but Clint was too concerned with Nat right now who wasn’t looking away from him. He could count on one hand the number of times she’d cried. It wasn’t often, and it worried him.  
  
Then suddenly she looked up over Clint’s shoulder and he craned around on the couch to see what she was looking at – and stumbled to his feet in shock.   
  
He knew that man. That… that was the man on the tv. Standing there in their living room. It was also the man in his half-remembered dreams and… Clint was right, his eyes _were _blue. A perfect, stormy gray, soft and piercing at the same time. They stared over at Clint in shock, wide open under that stupid baseball cap that pulled his hair away from his face and did absolutely nothing to hide his features.  
  
Nat’s head jerked from the man to Clint, sending a wary look his way before narrowing her eyes at Steve. “Oh Steve, you _didn’t,” _Nat said softly.

Clint didn’t understand what was going on _at all_ and his head was throbbing to beat the band.

He _knew _this guy, he was sure of it. God, his head was so foggy…

“Natasha, please don’t kill him. He’s not going to hurt any of us, not anymore,” Steve said, gesturing at the man beside him. “Everyone, this is Bucky. Bucky this is – “ Steve didn’t get a chance to finish.

Clint whimpered and his head screamed. Flashes flickered over him. That man was familiar, though the body language was too tentative, scared, for what he remembered. Almost remembered. There was a smile, a laugh, a caress. Words and fear… Clint’s heart sped up and pain throbbed in his skull.

Clint stepped forward unsteadily _– how, how, how_, echoed through his skull and the throbbing intensified.

Everything was right there… just… just out of reach…

“Clint?” Bucky - _the Winter Soldier!_ That’s the Winter Soldier! - whispered.

Clint took another step forward on shaking legs, his mouth opened, a word formed that he didn’t remember thinking –

“Winter?” It came out choked, unbidden, disbelieving – “James?” came out quieter, cracking partway – and then Clint fell to his knees, hands coming up to clutch his head and all he could hear was screaming as his head exploded.

* * *

When he came to, he was on the ground, his throat hurt and his head pounded but was also being cradled in somebody’s lap, fingers were threading through his hair, massaging the pressure points of his skull, shifting and moving. One came up to stroke down his cheek, there was a murmur he couldn’t hear but it sounded _nice_, and a flash of color caught his eye.

Clint’s hand snapped up to catch the hand at his cheek, twisting it around to see – a tattoo, near identical to his own, but faded, less vibrant.

And on one side, in Clint’s own handwriting, ‘Don’t Forget Your Hawk’.

The murmur grew louder, and Clint realized it was distraught. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. They made me forget.”

“It’s not your fault. I think they made me forget too,” Clint whispered. It took all the strength he had to say those words, the next were hardly any easier, “I’ve missed you.” His hands rubbed over the tattoo, clinging to Winters – to James - _Bucky’s? _– hand. Clint’s breath caught in his chest and he choked on a sob. “Even though I couldn’t remember, I _missed _you.”

“It’s okay, I’m here now. We’re safe now,” James said.

Clint’s chest broke, the sobs shaking him, his hand shaking on James. “Oh my god, I left you there…”

“It wasn’t your fault either,” James whispered, leaning down, brushing his lips over Clint’s forehead. “You tried. And I’m just glad they didn’t kill you.”

“Was a near thing,” Nat’s voice said, breaking their little bubble. She squatted beside them, a hand brushing gently over Clint’s cheek. “I hadn’t had a chance to look through everything before dumping it. Now I know what to look for…” she closed her eyes, leaned over and tapped her head gently on Clint’s. “I’m sorry for doubting you, yastreb.”

“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” Tony ordered. “JARVIS – “

“Belay that,” Steve said, shooting a glare at Tony. “Buck, what’s going on?”

Bucky chuckled and Clint ached to hear it. “Its all somewhat a muddle in my head, Stevie but… there were two people that Pierce couldn’t completely take away from me. You and Clint. It drove him crazy that he couldn’t wipe either of you away, not entirely.”

Clint continued to stare up into James’s face, a face he’d been seeing in his dreams for years now, but with even greater frequency since the battle of New York.

“God, it’s really you,” Clint said, hand reaching up to touch James reverently. “I think a part of me thought you were gone, dead, even though I couldn’t remember you. I’ve always been struck with this guilt that it was my fault.”

“Not dead,” James assured him, his lips quirking. “Takes a lot to kill me, haven’t you heard? How’s your head?”

“Like a freight train barreled through it,” Clint grunted, exhaustion hitting him, his eyes closing against his will. He struggled to keep them open even as Steve made a distraught sound somewhere close by. Clint was unwilling to stop looking at James. This could all be a dream, or a hallucination. What was to say James wouldn’t be gone again if he did?

What was to say, this wasn’t a dream and Clint would _forget_ _everything_ when he woke up?

“Easy, doll,” James whispered. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” Clint choked.

James leaned down, brushing his lips over Clint. “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 is half written. it is the end, but i gotta run out and do some things with the kid - i hope to have the last chapter up by tonight. thanks for your patience


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are at the end! i was out a good chunk of the day and then i spent some time getting the last bit of this chapter right and then i jut had to draw the tattoos. i couldn't help myself. my shoulder is killing me and i'm tired as hell, but i wanted to finish before bed. 
> 
> This fills the Bucky Barnes Bingo Square: So glad you're alive sex
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :D

Clint awoke who knew how much later, still to the walls of the common room but a much softer surface. He twisted in place and something shifted with him. Rolling over, he found he was laying side by side on the couch with Winter, with James... with _Bucky?_  
  
"I still can’t believe it's you," Clint whispered. Clint reached for his jaw, needing to touch James. "What do I call you now?"  
  
"James, you can still call me James," James whispered back. "I'm not Winter any more but I don't think... I don’t think I'm ready to be Bucky again either."  
  
It was suspiciously quiet around them considering they'd been left there instead of brought back to his rooms or brought to anywhere with any amount of privacy, but Clint couldn't take his eyes of James. Still, it was the kind of silence that was oppressing, unignorable. He sighed.  
  
"They're waiting on us, aren't they?" Clint asked, sliding his hand further up, James leaning into his palm and closing his eyes briefly before Clint moved on, threading his fingers through James’s hair. Clint stared at it as it slid over his fingers like little waves.  
  
James nodded. "I've remembered some things but not enough."  
  
"Same," Clint said. "I remember that things happened, I… I remember we were together, how I felt – feel – about you, but a lot of its fuzzy."  
  
"Yeah, we got questions too, Legolas," Tony said, closer than Clint had expected. Clint startled and flailed with a tiny squeak that set Tony to laughing, James catching him before he could fall to the floor. "JARVIS, set that as Clint's ringtone please?"  
  
"Of course, Sir."  
  
Bucky twitched, but he must have already gotten used to JARVIS's presence while Clint was sleeping. Clint shifted up and James shifted with him, turning enough to sit up and face the room while still easing back into the comforting circle of James’s arms, looping his own over them, neither of them willing to part.

Not again.

“Okay,” Clint said after settling in place. “Fill us in.”  
  
“I read up on a few things while you were sleeping. Enough to start piecing things together,” Nat said. “JARVIS?”   
  
One of the transparent screens lowered and she tapped at it, pictures and files flowing over its surface as everyone watched.  
  
“SHIELDS file on Clint started long before he was recruited, but there were gaps. Some of which you were able to fill in when you were brought in,” she said, looking directly at Clint. He nodded, remembering that bit. “but others you couldn't. Nobody thought anything about it though, since you were found unconscious at the edge of an explosion. They figured there was head trauma and SHIELD dropped it.”  
  
Clint’s breathing picked up and James’s arms tightened around him.  
  
“Coulson didn't.” Nat looked at him through the screen, a gentle, understanding look. “Not because he didn't trust you, but because he wanted to help you. You lost something important - anyone who's known you long enough could tell that - and he wanted to get it back for you. And he started with this.”  
  
The picture that filled the screen was his wrist tattoo, rotating so it was clear to see all the way around.   
  
“You had a strong attachment to it. According to this, you went into a fit that you couldn't quite remember later if someone even remotely suggested removing it.”  
  
“Why remove someone’s tattoo?” Steve asked, disapproval thick in his voice and posture. “That’s kind of personal, isn’t it?”

“Because SHIELD wanted to use Clint as an international spy – and easily identifiable marks like that are usually frowned upon, no matter which side you were on,” Nat said. “But they had to give it up. You were adamant over keeping it, and you made sure never to get caught. Still... you’d made such a fuss over it, that Coulson figured it was the obvious place to start.”  
  
“Makes sense,” Clint croaked. James ducked his head down next to Clint’s and Clint leaned into him.  
  
“What did he find?” Steve asked.  
  
“The only thing he came up with didn't make sense.” She threw up another picture, handwritten notes and doodles. Phil had written _What is Winter?_ In red at the bottom and circled it. The picture was replaced with the old SHIELD file on the Winter Soldier – blurry pictures that showed nothing of consequence.   
  
“The Winter Soldier was a cold-hearted myth, a legend that killed unmercifully, and you didn't fit that profile, nor did he think you’d associate with someone who did. But he started researching the Winter Soldier anyway, became an expert on him, and he _did _start noticing similarities in your fighting styles and methods, but he kept it quiet. These notes were sealed on his death,” Nat paused as Clint flinched. He still wasn’t over that, wasn’t over Phil dying _or _the hand he’d had in it. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Anyway, that's where SHIELD’s intel ends.” She tapped the screen. “And HYDRA’s picks up - it still has gaps, I don’t know if I haven’t found everything relevant yet, but what I’ve found… it fills the biggest one: _why_ you don't remember.”  
  
“They found me,” Clint whispered in horror. “Oh my god. Am I sleeper agent?” James shifted the tiniest bit, burying his face in Clint’s neck and Clint relaxed into the touch, letting it sooth him.  
  
“No,” Nat said. “That much we can _all _breathe easy on. There’s a lot here though, you want me to keep going or take a break?”  
  
Clint didn’t answer right away but he needed to know. “Keep going,” he said.  
  
“Okay, well, we don’t have to do that on an empty stomach. JARVIS, why don’t you make our usual pizza order and add - “ Clint watched Tony give James an appraising look. “Half a dozen pizzas. Usual split.”  
  
“Very well, sir,” JARVIS answered.

“But why didn’t they just kill me?” Clint asked, confused. “I had to be more trouble than it was worth.”

Nat nodded. “Normally, yes, but Pierce was in charge then and he had other plans. Firstly, you were highly skilled – placed within SHIELD, he could always use you on some of the more… legitmate missions, he just needed to make sure you didn’t remember Barnes or HYDRA. Also, you being alive was the only way to ensure Barnes cooperation at that point. There’s records of Barnes going for blood when he realized they had gotten their hands on you and Pierce made him a deal – he’d let you live and let you go, if Barnes came back to the fold.”

James stiffened under Clint, his breathing grew a little choppy and Clint rubbed his hands over James’s arms where they were wrapped around Clint.

“Then he wiped your memory and set you up so that SHIELD would find you,” Nat said. “And as soon as he could, he attempted to wipe Barnes’s memory of you. But enough lingered that it drove Pierce crazy, enough of Barnes would remember you and ask after you, so they _had _to keep you alive, to show him proof you were, keep him under their control.”

“Holy shit, he pulled a mother Gothel,” Clint said. He twisted in James’s grip. “God, James. I’m so sorry, I never wanted to be used against you.”

“Sweetheart, doll, we were both used,” James swallowed. “I’d rather just – well, not forget, I’ve forgotten too much already, but I want to take away the power those memories have over me and I want to focus on the here and now. I want to focus on you and us. On being free… with _you_.”

“Okay, okay, this is all well and good. Clint had some memory issues, used to date the Winter Soldier. Winter Soldier was… what, brainwashed? Coerced? Got it,” Tony said. “Will someone explain the part about how the Winter Soldier turns out to be Sergeant Barnes from 70 years ago?”

Shouting ensued and Clint… Clint found he didn’t care how James had come to be there. In the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they had found each other not once, but twice. That they still had a chance to make a go of things.

They still had a chance to be _happy._

* * *

When at last they were alone, it was hours and hours (and an impromptu pizza party) later.

Plus, Clint and James had both had to submit to tests by multiple doctors – ones that Stark employed within the building. He’d been reluctant, but when it became clear that Steve wouldn’t go unless _they _did, they’d caved.

Because Steve was a stubborn jackass, and he was still healing from the beatdown James had given him a week ago, which went to show just how bad it had been.

James looked guilty the second it was brought up and Clint grimaced. He’d been there, he knew how that felt.

But finally, _finally_, Clint was able to drag James off to his own rooms, the headache had long since faded away with occasional twinges. That was to be expected, though. Probably the more he remembered, the more it would hurt.

Nat had said something about HYDRA occasionally giving Clint ‘touchups’ to his mind wipe. Now that they were no longer around, the wipes would break down over time, the pain would ease up, and things would go back to normal.

Or as normal as it ever got around here. But until then, remembering would hurt, for both of them, but their memories would come back, both the good and the bad.

But right now, he wasn’t remembering. Right now, he was making new memories.

He pressed James against the door as soon as they made it inside the privacy of his room and proceeded to kiss him breathless. James had no objection, returning the kiss eagerly, pulling Clint close. A flash of an alley ran across Clint’s mind, a rushed handjob, the risk of being caught, but the desperate need to be close to each other.

The need was the same, just as desperate, just as urgent and frantic, but this time, Clint wanted more.

Trailing kisses down James’s throat, Clint nipped lightly at the stretch of it, James knocking his head on the door with a small groan, his fingers kneading Clint’s shoulders and his hips rocking up.

“God, I missed you,” Clint mumbled into James’s skin, his hands trembling as he moved to push up his shirt. “I couldn’t even remember but I missed you every goddamned day.”

“I did too, sweetheart,” James’ gasped. He grasped the back of Clint’s neck and dragged their mouths together, their tongues tangling in long, drawn out, open mouthed kisses.

“Thought you were dead,” Clint said, tears pricking at his eyes. “I’d see you in my dreams and I’d wake up and you weren’t there. It was confusing, to love a dream so damn much. I couldn’t love anyone as much as I loved you and I was sure you were dead – why else wouldn’t I remember?”

“But I’m not, doll,” James said. “I’m right here, Clint. Not going to leave your side again, ever. You hear me?”

Clint nodded, throat thick. He tugged at James’s clothes. He needed to see James, to make sure he was real, to map out any new marks time might have left on him. “C’mon, need to feel ya,” Clint said.

James reached down, grasped the hems of all his shirts and pulled them up in one fluid motion, tossing them to the side before dragging Clint’s tee right over his head while Clint fought with James’s pants. James’s hand came over Clint’s’ stilling them.

“Shh… we have all the time in the world, now. We can _take _our time,” James said softly, kissing Clint gently with barely there kisses. “We can do it here, the couch, a soft bed – anywhere we want, _because _we want, not because it’s what we have.”

Clint smiled, his eyes still wet. “God, that’s… that’s amazing. To think that’s true, that…” He swallowed, Clint’s hands trailing over James’s chest, brushing over his clavicle and wrapping around his neck. “That we’re getting a second chance…”

They lost themselves in the kisses, their bodies rocking together gently but then Clint thought about what James had said and he pulled away, james’s mouth chasing Clint’s lips. Clint chuckled, slid his hands down James’s body, catching under the swell of his ass and _lifted._

James yelped, arms and legs wrapping around Clint instinctively and Clint laughed, nuzzling into james neck. James groaned.

“Fuck, I forgot how strong you are,” he said, squeezing Clint’s biceps. Clint grinned and stepped back from the door and turned, making his way deeper into the apartment to the bedroom. The bed was unmade, but luckily the floor was – for a miracle – clear, as it would have really sucked to have tripped while carrying James.

Clint groaned breathlessly as James sucked on Clint’s neck. He dropped James to the bed, then followed him down, tracing each scar – old and new – first with his fingers, then with his tongue, till James was writhing under him, hands buried in Clint’s hair – just long enough to give it a good tug before scratching his scalp. Clint melted, eyes rolling up in his head briefly at the satisfying tingles.

Surging upward, Clint molded his body over James, cupped his face and touched their heads together, his eyes slipping shut, his breath ragged.

James’s hands spread over his bare back, rubbing circles over Clint’s flesh.

“Fuck,” Clint breathed out. He pressed a kiss to James’s forehead. “You’re here.” He pressed a kiss to the corners of James’s eyes – left then right. “Really here.” Clint kissed the tip of his nose, his breath hitching. One of James’s hands slid back up over Clint’s neck rubbing it soothingly.

“Fuck, I love you,” Clint whispered against James’s lips. “I can’t even remember if I’ve told you that before.”

James gasped and his hips rolled up, up, up into Clint. It was delicious, the heat of James against Clint, the way they slotted together so perfectly. James had been the missing piece, a piece carved right out of his soul and Clint wanted to pull him back in, hold him close in his arms forever.

“Love you too, doll,” James moaned, peppering kisses over Clint’s face. “Never forgot that, no matter how hard they tried.”

His hands glided over Clint’s sweaty skin, down over the small of his back, briefly stopping to dig in there. Clint let out another moan, tucking his head down into James’s neck, breathing hard. He jerked when James slid his hands right under the sweatpants Clint wore, grasping his ass with both hands and urging Clint to move. Clint whimpered his cock dragging along James.

“Pants,” Clint whined into James’s ear.

“Okay,” James whispered. He pushed Clint’s down over the swell of his ass, Clint shivering at the light breeze of the tower’s AC hitting his exposed flesh before he shuffled up to kick them off the rest of the way. Then he knelt before James completely naked, slowly working at the laces of his boots.

Propping himself up on his elbows, James watched him with hooded eyes, licking his lips.

“Clint – “

“Yeah…”

Clint yanked James’s boots off and tugged on the jeans. He heard the snap of the button, the pull of the zip and then Bucky was leaning back and arching up so Clint could pull them down the length of his body.

Pausing on his way up, Clint turned to trace kisses on the newly exposed scars, nipped at James thighs and smirked up at him from between his spread legs.

James chuckled, his stormy grey blue eyes meeting Clint’s as Clint teased his lips over the juncture of James thigh, licked his way across James abs and otherwise avoided the hard cock jutting out from James’s body. “You’re a menace,” James said, fondness in his voice, in his eyes.

Clint’s breath caught at the softness and the love that filled James’s face, pouring from his eyes to Clint’s. James reached down, “C’mere,” he said, his flesh hand trembling.

Crawling up James’s body, Clint let himself melt into James’s arms, their lips meeting again. The kisses were soft and deep, their hips rolling together, their leaking cocks a hot, wet slide, making them groan into each other’s mouths.

“Don’t let go,” James whispered, his hands running over Clint, gripping, kneading, caressing, pulling him closer, harder.

Dropping his head into the crook of James’s neck, Clint moaned, tugging James’s hair and rocking downward in increasingly desperate bursts.

“Never, never again,” Clint agreed in gasping breaths. “Never letting you go.”

The words were enough to send James over the edge, his back arching, his cock twitching alongside Clint’s before spurting, James crying out as he came. Clint keened as the way grew slicker. He bit down on James’s shoulder and shuddered through his own orgasm before slumping down atop James.

The two of them were breathing hard and there were tears in James’s eyes. Clint reached for James, wiping at the tears.

“Okay?” Clint asked cautiously.

“More than okay,” James said. “Closer to okay then I’ve been in a long damn time.” A smile spread across his face, despite the tears. Clint blinked blurrily as James reached for Clint, wiping tears from Clint’s face. “You?”

“Yeah,” Clint chuckled, ducking down to cuddle with James. Clint hadn’t even realized he was crying but these were _good _tears, cleansing ones. “Fuck yeah.”

Reaching down, Clint linked his left hand with James’s right, pulling them up, their tattoos lining up together. Clint leaned in to kiss the inside of James’s wrist softly, lips brushing gently over the tattoo.

James’s other hand shifted and twisted and then Clint could feel the blankets settling over them, James’s hand curling over Clint’s back.

Clint knew he should take his aides out, but damn, he really didn’t want to. He’d regret it in the morning, but right now, he didn’t want to lose any bit of James. He wanted to hear James breathing, finally figure out if he snored. Wanted to assure himself through as many senses as possible that _James was real._

He was warm, and solid beneath Clint. He smelled of metal and gunpowder, sweat and sex, his kisses tasted like _home _and his skin of honey, of all things. Murmured words in James’s low, husky voice were music to Clint’s ears, the sight of James’s hair spread out on Clint’s pillow was breathtaking –

And all of it meant that James was fucking _real_.

Clint clutched him close as James’s breathing evened out, Clint’s eyes dragging shut against his will. He didn’t want to sleep, because he didn’t want this to be a dream, but the lure of sleeping with James was too much and Clint fell asleep.

It might take a while for Clint – or James, for that matter – to believe this was happening, that they got to keep this, each other, but it would come.

It just meant they would cherish each moment, each day that they got together, all the more. Clint wasn’t going to take _any _of this for granted.

_Ever,_ he resolved as he fell into a slumber more restful than he could remember having in a long time.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rebloggable tumblr post [ here ](https://pherryt.tumblr.com/post/187276737536/tattooed-memories-marvel-pre-avengers-to-post)


End file.
